


Euphoria

by uleanblue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Existential Crisis, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:47:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1438954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uleanblue/pseuds/uleanblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a belated entry for the April Fool's Day Trickster Challenge. AU. Hermione Granger's meeting with the Dark Lord goes awry.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Euphoria**

It was lunchtime.

So far, Hermione's day-no, scratch that- her _week_ had been an unmitigated disaster, the sort of cascading, dogpile of awfulness that frequently led people to erupt in a blaze of alcohol soaked, socially inappropriate behavior.

Not that she'd ever been that sort of person, but there was, as she was beginning to discover, a first time for everything.

Her engagement to Ron was _off_ , she was on bloody _probation_ at work, and her bloated tick of a landlady, with her eerily fixed, lipstick stained grin had cheerfully informed her that as of next month her lease would _not_ be renewed.

So now, she was not only grouchy, hungry, and soon to be homeless, she was _late_ \--which was probably the worst of all. She literally stumbled into the crowded coffee shop.

And he...there _he_ was, absolutely impossible to miss, already comfortably ensconced at one of the high round cafe tables. A thick, slightly tousled lock of dark, wavy hair hung over his brow. Leaning forward on one elbow, long legs stretched out under the table, seemingly absorbed in his book, he was the epitome of casual ease.

It was an illusion, of course. He was far from oblivious to his surroundings.

He was also garnering more than a few appreciative glances from both the men and women patrons. Even Hermione had to acknowledge that he was... _attractive_ , at least physically. In his current incarnation no one, well, apart from possibly Harry and Ginny, would even recognize him.

She wondered briefly if he would tell her how he'd managed it.

She'd hoped to slip in unnoticed, but at the sound of the door clicking shut behind her his dark eyes flicked up and locked on hers. So intense, so effortlessly intimidating was his gaze that for an instant she simply froze, involuntarily, like the rabbit before the wolf. A faint smile played across his lips; his gaze dropped back to his book as she shook off her inertia and maneuvered through the crowd.

Not even at the table yet and he'd won the first round.

_Damnit_.

She _hated_   him.

"Granger."

"Riddle."

"I was beginning to think you wouldn't show." He'd adopted a bored expression, yet there was a barely concealed undertone of anticipation in his voice, and Hermione repressed a shudder as she very briefly imagined the consequences for standing him up.

"Proved you wrong again then, didn't I?" she replied peevishly, hanging her coat and handbag over the adjacent chair.

"I took the liberty of ordering for you."

"I figured you would, you egotistical-"

He broke in sharply, eyes narrowed in annoyance. " _Manners_ , Granger. You forget, I could make this quite painful for you."

"If by painful you mean unwillingly subjected to your excessively unpleasant personality, then you've already accomplished that quite nicely, _thank you_."

It was incredibly risky, she knew, to speak to him so impertinently, still, after the unholy clusterfuck of a week she'd experienced so far, she could not suppress her agitation, not even for his _Royal Lord of All Things Dark and Disagreeable_.

"Yet here you are," he said slowly. He observed her now, appraisingly. "You seem rather perturbed. Tell me, is there trouble in paradise?"

What was she supposed to say? That yes, her engagement with Ron was now called off because he suspected her of having an affair? _With, ironically, the coercive bastard in front of her._

He watched her, waiting for an answer; the thin veneer of bravado she'd so far sustained threatening to shatter like glass under the laser like force of his scrutiny.

As if she would voluntarily open herself to his mockery.

"Yes, here I am...Merlin, I must be some sort of bloody masochist."

"Perhaps we could find a way to put that particular quality to better use." His tone was unmistakably suggestive.

_Oh no he didn't-_

"You are completely socially stunted, aren't y-what's so funny?"

"Granger, You truly are delightful."

"Coming from you, that's hardly a compliment," she shot back, thoroughly discomfited. She glanced toward the counter, still mobbed with customers, the servers scurrying like ants to fill orders. "Shouldn't our drinks be here by now?"

"In a hurry?"

"Perhaps I simply don't want to prolong these encounters any more than absolutely necessary."

His eyes flashed, but after a beat he surprised her by simply shrugging. "Your loss."

"Oh, the heartbreak. Whatever shall I do?" She kept her tone light. She'd probably pushed her luck far enough for one day.

"I can think of a few things, you insolent chit."

There was that tone again. It was a new, and rather disturbing development.

Their verbal sparring was momentarily halted with the arrival of the server with their coffees. He'd once again chosen a plain double espresso, and he'd ordered for her a cafe macchiato sprinkled with cinnamon. It made her slightly uncomfortable, yet oddly pleased that he was the only person to ever bother remembering precisely how she liked her coffee.

Cradling the cup in both hands, she inhaled deeply, savoring the warm, spicy scent. She took a small tentative sip so as not to burn her mouth, then nodded toward him. "What are you reading?"

Wordlessly he slid the book over to her, and she blinked a few times as she attempted to absorb the incongruity between his choice in reading material and what she thought she knew about him. "How long have you been interested in String Theory?"

And with that, they launched into a rousing, at times heated discussion that encompassed dimensional intersections, Hawking, and then veered over to whether or not Rasputin may have actually been a wizard.

* * *

 

"Revenge is hardly a _rational_ response," she stated, rolling her eyes.

He could be so bloody irksome.

" _It's mercy, compassion and forgiveness I lack, not rationality_ ," he responded with a sly smirk.

A long beat passed before she blurted in disbelief, "Since when are you a Tarantino fan?"

His only response was a cagey grin.

They fell into a companionable quiet as they finished their coffees, and for the first time, Hermione actually considered ordering a second cup.

_Well, this was certainly unprecedented._

Normally she had no hesitation about scarpering off as soon as she'd put in whatever requisite amount of time seemed to satisfy his demands. Today had been...different, though she couldn't identify the precise moment when their interaction had shifted. She was hesitant to define anything involving him as _pleasant,_ but there it was. Plus, there had been moments between them today that came perilously close to actual _flirting_. He would be terribly smug once he saw she was extending their encounter, wouldn't he?

And damn, If he kept raking her over with that intense, smoldering gaze of his, she would have no choice but to go home, take a cold shower, then write a four page essay on the banality of evil.

She craned her neck to signal the server and froze. Behind the counter, a familiar lanky redhead was pulling off an apron. It was George.

_Oh, no. Oh bloody buggering hell._

He winked at her, then strolled toward the door marked 'Employees Only' at the rear of the cafe. Paralyzed, Hermione watched him as he exited, whistling. What the hell was he doing here?

Was he spying on her for Ron? Or worse, had they followed her and discovered her secret?

She was going to kill him. Correction: If she survived whatever came next, she would most definitely kill him, preferably with her bare hands.

Her gaze swiveled back to the table, only to meet Tom's icy, implacable glare.

He didn't say anything.

He didn't have to.

He practically radiated anger, all hard edges and barely contained violence and instantly her stomach plummeted like a rock. She prayed that whatever unknowing stupidity George had engaged in wouldn't result in an explosion of death and destruction.

"I saw him too, Granger," he whispered as he leaned in close. To the other patrons they would simply appear as if they were sharing an intimate moment. "I imagined your willingness to these meetings might lead to some clumsily executed attempt to bring me in, though I admit I never thought you'd do something so pathetically _amateurish_."

"It's not a trap."

"No? You have about ten seconds to explain, or I begin slaughtering everyone in here. Slowly. As you watch."

"I never told anyone who I was meeting."

At his skeptical expression she quickly added, "you, of all people, would know if I was lying to you."

She'd made a point. He inclined his head marginally. The nearly suffocating tension abated by the tiniest faction.

"You still haven't come close to convincing me this was purely coincidental."

"I told you I would come alone and I have."

"Then you're terribly naive. I wouldn't have."

"I'm not you."

"Now that's the nicest thing you've said all day."

"I _truly don't know_ why he was here. He would never recognize you, as far as he could tell I'm just meeting with a Muggle-" she cast about desperately, then trailed off as her eyes fell on the calendar that hung on the far wall. "Oh. Oh, shit. He _didn't_." Her eyes squeezed shut; she grimaced. "I can't believe I forgot..it explains so much."

"Explains what, precisely?" he snapped, his patience wearing thin.

"Today is the first of April."

"Ah," he said, understanding. "An April Fool's Day prank, then." He rolled his eyes. "How utterly pedestrian."

"George has always been a jokester," she replied defensively.

"So I gather. Care to hazard a guess regarding the nature of the prank? Because, and I will allow _you just this once_ to correct me if I am wrong, but once the prankster had made his presence known, then the joke must already be underway else it be a complete failure."

"I don't know...our drinks, perhaps? But I didn't taste anything out of the ordinary. No residual aftertaste, nothing."

His laugh was cold, devoid of humor. "With friends like that, who needs enemies?"

"What's that supposed to mean? He didn't mean any harm. It's all in good fun."

"Fun?" He whispered. He appeared genuinely surprised. It was confusing.

"Tell me, Hermione, is it _fun_ that a _friend_ would stoop to adulterating your beverage with an unknown substance, without your knowledge or consent as a _bloody joke?"_

She sat, stunned, but he continued viciously, "you poison your enemies, _witch_ , and while I've never professed to have friends," he said, voice dripping with disdain, "I imagine that the concept involves a basic consideration for the other's welfare, as well as trust, something that your bloody prankster appears to completely discounted for the sake of cheap humor."

When he put it that way it was positively horrific. But he was right.

"Well, I daresay that I can predict one very specific outcome for your mischievous _friend_ -" Abruptly the harsh angles of his features smoothed, gave way to a placid, slightly crooked smile.

A soft, effervescent warmth suffused her at that moment; she was overcome with a sense of buoyant, almost giddy delight. All around her, colors appeared brighter and even the loud, vaguely discordant chatter in the coffee shop seemed to carry a harmonic, musical quality.

Great.

She was tripping balls with the Dark Lord.

George was as good as dead.

A broad grin plastered on his face, Tom then literally jumped to his feet, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. "Come, Hermione," he said, extending a hand to her. He looked rather dashing, actually.

As Hermione stepped down from the high cafe chair she wobbled on her feet. The floor itself seemed to ripple, and the edges of, well, everything were beginning to blur and shimmer. Instantly he swooped in and grabbed her, holding her steady. "What are you doing?" she quavered as he unexpectedly slid the tips of his fingers across her cheek, leaving tingling trails of sensation that nearly made her eyes roll back in her head.

His dark eyes scanned her face. "You have such lovely skin," he murmured.

She felt her face flush; it grew increasingly difficult to concentrate, her thoughts spinning, glittering pinwheels. With the potent force of his attention focused entirely on her, it was all she could do to keep her feet. She managed to bite out, "we should go."

His response was a low hum that felt like it reverberated through her entire body. Clasping her hand, he led her purposefully out of the coffee shop, around the corner and into the shadow of the adjacent alleyway.

She should have been terrified.

He wrapped lean, strong arms around her, took a deep breath and seemed to steel himself. As they disappeared soundlessly into apparition she clutched him tightly and buried her face in his sweater.

* * *

 

They arrived in a forest.

Apart from the occasional chirping, chittering birdsong it was quiet.

The profusion of greens and golds, the dark lines of the trees stretching upward like fingers reaching toward the heavens, the clear fresh aromas of air and earth, all of it was a feast for the senses such as Hermione had never experienced.

As she stood, arms outstretched in awe, giggling as the thought struck her that she could probably actually _taste the rainbow_ , he took her coat, transfiguring it into a blanket onto which he drew her down.

They laid next to each other, hands entwined, silently basking in the warm glow of the afternoon sun.

It was _amazing_.

Hermione felt supremely, utterly connected; to nature, to the universe, even to _him_ -as if every atom of her being and his being and every molecule that existed from the tiniest nuclei to the farthest dwarf star pulsed in perfect harmony. Anything was possible. Or was it?

Turning her head, she gazed at the strong, clean line of his profile. He was beautiful yet poisonous, like deadly nightshade, a singularity, dark and magnetic, drawing all light into his destructive, crushing embrace. But there was an inexplicable, tangible energy that sparked between them like lightning, far beyond the mundanely intellectual or even sexual.

With painful clarity she understood that the longer she danced around, pretending that as long as she kept up the fight, kept up the facade of disinterested banter she would remain safe, then the greater the possibility that she would lose herself.

Or more likely, he would eventually grow bored and destroy her simply because he had the power to do so.

And she wondered, with a sharp pang, if there had ever been a time when he was capable of truly experiencing pure emotions such as joy, or wonder, if ever he'd been held rapt by the simple, unsullied beauty of the dappled sunlight as it streamed through a grove of trees.

"Can you feel-" she began, breathlessly, before he cut her off.

"Yes," he said hoarsely, rolling onto his side to face her. Gone was the polished, distant, sneering tyrant. His eyes were wild, his expression open and shifting as some fierce inner battle played itself out across his features. But she had no time to ponder it further as he crushed his lips to hers.

* * *

 

Later they landed in a quiet, tastefully decorated drawing room with hardwood floors. To her surprise he guided her gently down into a large, comfortably overstuffed wingback chair.

"Where are we?" She closed her eyes. It was getting progressively harder to form coherent sentences, and the kaleidoscope- like visual distortions were beginning to make her nauseous.

"Someplace safe."

She couldn't help but laugh aloud at the irony. Safe. With _him_.

She had officially entered the Twilight Zone.

Tom knelt in front of her, took her head in his hands and tilted it back, observing her eyes. Her pupils were almost totally dilated, her respiration increasingly shallow and erratic. "He may have thought he was playing a silly joke, Hermione, but whatever he has given you has dangerously overloaded your system."

"What's one less mudblood to you? I would think you'd be pleased." she croaked.

He ignored the jab, scooping her up. Her head lolled against his chest. Her muscles were now clenching, twitching involuntarily. "Please, make it stop." 

"I'm taking you to hospital."

"Don't kill him."

"You would _defend_ him? Even now?"

"Course...not…" she stuttered, her voice slurring, "do..it...myself."

She couldn't see the pleased smirk on his face, but she could feel the rumble of his chest as he chuckled. Her last fuzzy thought before she faded out completely was that she wouldn't mind feeling it again.

* * *

 

Back at the lab of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, there was chaos. Workers were rifling through supply cabinets with clipboards. There was shouting.

George wandered through, observing the activity with growing uneasiness. "What's all the excitement?"

Ron looked wrecked, like he hadn't slept in days. "I think...I think we may have a security breach." There was a raw,desperate air to his brother that he'd never seen, even back during the war.

George's sense of contented accomplishment evaporated like smoke.

"What's happened?"

"One of the test vials of Euphoric Elixir is missing, which is...well, it's bloody fucking incomprehensible, with all the safety protocols we have."

Producing the vial from his pocket, he said, reassuringly, "It's right here, mate. It's fine."

Ron eyed him with a shocked disbelief that would have been comical in different circumstances. Angrily, he snatched it from George's hand, shocking him with his vehemence. "No, it's not _fine_! What were you-" Ron's eyes bulged as he examined the vial more closely, "Bloody fucking hell! Why is it nearly empty?"

"A little field testing there, bro."

_"What_...George, are you bloody _mental_? One of the ingredients was _contaminated_. That whole batch was marked to be _destroyed_."

"Destroyed?" His stomach clenched; fear washed over him like icy water.

"Yes! It kept breaking down into an unstable compound. Bears some resemblance to a certain Muggle drug, actually..but _George_." His eyes widened; he seized George by the shoulders. "Merlin, you didn't _use_ it, did you? We've got to get you to Mungo's, _now!_ " He was all but babbling in his anxiety.

"No! I...I didn't take it myself."

The atmosphere in the room shifted with the sudden sharpness of a razor.

"George...what the fuck did you _do_?"

"I was just...I would never mean to _hurt_ her. I swear, it was just supposed to be a prank. You know that, right?" he whispered brokenly. "Just a prank."


	2. Part Two

It was dark when she woke up.

It took several long minutes to figure out where she was, and another still to realize that _Tom_ was there, seated next to her hospital bed. She was in a private room, at least. All the excessive, distorted sensory input had dissipated, leaving her wiped out and…strangely empty.

“No, I would not be pleased.”

There was a solemnity to his tone that jolted her out her torpor.

“What? I..” she trailed off. For some reason, she suddenly wanted, no, needed to see his face. As if in response, the room blossomed with soft light. She scrunched her eyes shut for a minute, waiting for them to adjust. “What are you talking about?”

A jolt passed through her when she took in his appearance. He was haggard, unshaven, wearing the same clothes he’d worn in the café. His eyes, though, regarded her with a bright, piercing intensity that made her shiver.

“If you died. I would not be pleased.”

The moment hung suspended in thick, choking silence.

Something was very, very _wrong_ with him.

Her mind still felt sluggish and disconnected as she struggled to process his words.

_Was he saying--?_

No.  He was lying, she thought savagely.   

It was _delusional_ to even consider for an instant that her life was meaningful to him. He was utterly _incapable_ of relating to anyone on a remotely human level. There was no _normal_ , no standard of measurement to even _define_ what he was. He did not _feel_. Whatever connection they had shared, however fleeting, however _passionate_ or magical, had been an _illusion_. A chemically induced artifice.

It wasn’t real.

Still, he’d always looked after his _things_ , hadn’t he? She was nothing more to him than a toy, a puppet to move and make dance upon the whim of his cruelty, and this-- yet another game of Mind Fuck.   

The realization left her enraged, but also inexplicably bereft, the tautly wound coil of her emotions finally frayed past all endurance, and suddenly she was crying, heavy racking sobs that _hurt_ , the muscles of her torso painfully tender.

He didn’t move; he simply continued to study her with that same, too intense gaze.

She wanted him to move, to do something.

Maybe goading the Dark Lord wasn’t the wisest course of action, but a rapid swell of hysteria was building, bubbling through her; she was thoroughly unwound beyond her ability to contain herself. “ _Fuck you, Tom! Just...Fuck you_!”  

The expected backlash to her outburst--scorn, vicious taunting, _death_ \--did not materialize. He  stood up, mechanically, turning from her and stepping to the window and sliding open the curtain.

The sun was pale distant disk of orange creeping over the rooftops.

“The melancholy is merely an aftereffect. It will pass.” he intoned flatly.

His listless demeanor was unsettling, disturbing in a manner utterly unlike anything she’d ever witnessed from him, even those instances in battle when he’d harnessed the full measure of his nearly unimaginable power.

But she was done; he could kill her now, if he chose. She would not keep silent any longer. “Damn you! Is this your twisted fucking way of saying that you _care_? When every meeting, _every single one_ was nothing more than an exercise of your ability to _terrorize_ me? For _months_ my entire life has been held hostage. By you. Well, I’m not..I won’t be your fucking _entertainment_. N-not anymore.”

She was breathing hard, as if she’d been sprinting, nerves on edge, awaiting his response.

A long minute passed. He continued to stare blankly out the window.

“You’ve earned that, I suppose.”

All the breath whooshed out of her then as she was seized by a single, horrific notion: _His mind has snapped. That must be it. He’s gone, and what’s left here is this...this shell._

_It was too much, too much..._

Her tears stuttered to a halt as she gaped at him in dawning comprehension.

No.

He hadn’t snapped.

She would not be alive if he had.

He was held as tightly in the throes of post euphoric dysthymia as she was, only _it was worse for him, wasn’t it?_ It must be, given that his lack of an emotional framework to draw on likely amplified the intensity of the experience for him tenfold.

Yet in the midst of all of that, he’d brought her to the hospital. Whatever his motives, he had gotten her help. She wasn’t sure what to think of that.

That he’d safely apparated them both _three_ times while under the influence of the potion was a stunning testament to the incredible power of his magic.

“I expect you are wondering about my sanity at the moment.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“When I first spotted Weasley, I surmised that you’d finally tried to orchestrate some inept,  misguided attempt to capture me.”

“I never told anyone about the meetings.”

The look he gave her was indecipherable. “Yes, I know. Why is that, I wonder?”

_Why, indeed._

At first it had been easy. She’d wanted to protect her friends, protect Harry-- she’d assumed Tom’s motive had been to use her as some sort of lure..but at some point along the way the waters had been muddied. If she was honest, she could no longer truly identify the reason for her secrecy.

On some level, had she been protecting _him?_ Protecting the one single hour every week where she felt...alive?

Was she really that selfish?

“I don’t know,” she answered quietly.

“I confess, I did not anticipate we’d _both_ been drugged until you began to exhibit symptoms.”

“But what happened wasn’t real. _None_ of it was real,” she emphasized.

“Wasn’t it?”

“As real as any psychotropically induced hallucination can be, I suppose.”

Quickly he swept over to her. “You know what little regard I hold for human emotion, Hermione. But _there,_ in the forest, I _felt_ what you did. I experienced that _connection,_ that sense of being one microscopic part of the greater whole..and at first...” A bitter, disbelieving laugh escaped him, “it was _excruciatingly awful._ ”  

She stood riveted, unable to speak.

“I felt wholly insignificant, small and helpless in a way I haven’t felt since I was a child, since before I discovered my magic. And do you know what my first impulse was?”

He fixed her with a look.

She knew. God help her, she knew. Without hesitation, she answered, “to kill me.”

“I thought if I killed you,” he repeated dully, “if I watched the life drain out of you, I could reclaim some semblance of power, once again exert some measure of control over my own existence.” He reached up then, stroked his fingers through the long curls laying across her shoulder.

It took all her self control not to flinch.

“But I couldn’t do it. To my shock, I found I could no sooner end your existence than I could end my own.” He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. “Do you want to know why?”

She drew a long, shuddering breath. She truly wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what was next. “Why?” she whispered.

“I was _adrift_ , Hermione. After everything I had done to secure my immortality, to achieve dominion over others, all my _power_...it all meant nothing, _nothing_ compared to the indescribable, eternal vastness of the universe. I, Lord Voldemort, was calling into question my very place, my role in this world. And then, as I hovered on the edge of oblivion, I sensed...I sensed _you_ , Hermione. I felt your magic. It was a beacon in the darkness.”

He dropped his head forward, so that it rested in the crook of her neck. She didn’t resist the contact. Tentatively, she brought her hands up to his shoulders, and laid her fingers lightly against the fine weave of his sweater. “There’s more..isn’t there?” she murmured.

“I entered your mind.”

She froze, barely suppressing the instinct to shove him violently away. Her muscles trembled with unreleased tension, but she held herself still.

“You became my tether to this world.” Tom raised his head, and met her eyes. His expression was unexpectedly tender, intimate, so much so that her breath caught in her chest. “Through _you_ , your memories and emotions, I found my way back. I came to understand what I have been, and what I am.”

“And what is that?”

As he spoke, his posture straightened as he seemed to finally begin shaking off the frightening lethargy that had seized him.

“I am a catalyst, a bringer of profound change. I am the _Tower_.”

“Transformation through destruction,” Hermione murmured, understanding, before shaking her head. “But you also inflict pain, and bring chaos. You harm innocents without regard.”

“Nature is a cruel mistress, Hermione. Hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis--they create tremendous upheaval, destroy lives just as surely, yet you don’t rail against their existence. My role is just as integral to the function of this world. The fire of destruction cleanses away the old, the decayed, so that new things can emerge. Without darkness, there is no balance, Hermione.”

_Clearly his ego is as intact as ever._

“You can’t honestly _legitimize_ your actions as simply part of the natural order.”

One corner of his turned upward. “You don’t have to like it. Just accept it,” he said wryly.

“I don’t accept that. I _won’t,_ ” she replied fiercely. “It’s _ridiculous_. You’re a conscious entity, not a-- _ah!”_ she shuddered, gasped as he moved suddenly and pressed the tips of his fingers to her cheek. It was like electricity coursing through her flesh, every nerve ignited and buzzing.

She dragged her eyes up to his face. His eyes were half closed, mouth curved in a pleased smirk. He looked... _intoxicated_. “ _How--?_ ” she managed, her brain quickly spiraling into sensory overload.  

“I wasn’t sure until just now,” he rumbled.

Snaking his free arm around her waist, he yanked her forward until her body was molded against his, then leaned down and kissed her soundly. The hard length of his erection pressed against her abdomen, and as he sucked gently on her lower lip she moaned into his mouth, rocking her hips against him. He reciprocated with a groan, tightened his grip around her. His hand drifted down her face, his thumb caressing her jaw.

She disengaged from the kiss, panting, her eyes squeezed shut. “Not..right...to..interrupt...me.”

He chuckled softly.

Brushing his lips to her ear he whispered, “Feel me, feel how I want you.”

Without loosening his hold, he maneuvered them the few steps over to the bed, all the while planting moist, sensuous kisses down the side of her neck. His arousal was like a living thing, roaring through her senses. She threw her arms around his neck, twining her fingers through his hair as he swiftly lowered them down onto the narrow metal hospital bed. When he wordlessly vanished their clothing, her brain shut down completely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- So I lied. This will be three parts, because OF COURSE I have to tinker with the ending. Again. 
> 
> And seriously, this originally started out as humor, but just veered into I don't even know. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter Three

Part Three

Awareness washed over Hermione in gentle, languid waves, each detail, each impression slowly layering itself upon her consciousness: the smooth, lean plane of Tom’s chest pressing warmly against her right cheek as she laid on top of him, the steady, solid rhythm of his heartbeat, the sensation of his long, elegant fingers tracing lazy circles up and down her bare back.

And a constant, perceptible undercurrent of magic, electric and alive, thrumming pleasantly through every pore, every centimeter of her skin where it was in contact with his.

This should not be possible.

How long had it been since they’d been drugged? It was certainly well beyond the duration of any hallucinogen or medication-- or _anything_ , actually-- she had ever heard of. Not only that, the amount they’d ingested was _miniscule_. That they would still be experiencing any effects at all--it just...it just shouldn’t be possible.

As incredibly difficult as it was at the moment to examine the phenomena with any clarity given the rather _spent_ state of her analytical capabilities, not to mention the decided lack of caffeine in her system, she managed to kickstart her fuzzy brain into motion to begin looking at the problem.

Just what, precisely, had happened to them?

The effects of potions, generally, were simply not meant to be _permanent_ \--though there were a few, such as skelegrow, that acted as catalysts, manipulating the body’s own physiological response to produce the desired result.

Unless...they were dealing with some sort of chemically induced genetic permutation-- _bonded to our magic?_ Hermione suppressed the instant, nearly blinding flare of panic at the thought. _No. This can’t be permanent. It can’t be_.

She would need immediate access to all of George’s material data records. And then, perhaps, she could identify and isolate the mechanism involved, and...figure out a way to reverse it.

There had to be an answer, a way to reverse--whatever _this_ was-- and it was imperative that she find it. Quickly.

For this moment at least, though, she could remain safely nestled in the illusion of peace that was Tom’s embrace, free from the real world and the inevitable repercussions that were sure to come.

She purposefully avoided thinking of _them_ \-- of Ron, and Harry, of everyone who’d ever counted on her to be logical, to make the right choices, to not betray everything they stood for.

God, they were going to _hate_ her.

She breathed deeply, taking in the masculine scent of his skin as his other hand twined through her hair, massaging her scalp. As long as she was on the subject of _Things That Should Not Be Possible_ \-- A tiny knot of uncertainty tightened in her stomach at the prospect of broaching this particular topic, but she pressed past it.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Oh?” His eyes remained closed, thick lashes dark against his pale alabaster skin. His hand only hesitated for a fraction of a second before continuing its languorous path across her flesh.

“How did you manage it?” She slid her fingers up, pressed them gently against the firm curve of his bicep. “This, I mean. Your body. Coming back. Everything, actually.”

His eyes flicked open, locked on hers, his gaze sharp and potent and knowing, sending a fresh wave of hot, liquid arousal through her lower abdomen. _God, how does he do that?_

Gracing her with a barely there smirk, he murmured, “If you consider our conversation from yesterday, I think you will find your answer.”

Because of course he wouldn’t just tell her, _He who must craft being difficult into an art form_.

Vaguely exasperated, she squinted at him, attempting to sift through all the bits and fragments of memories and pertinent pieces of conversation from the previous day. Considering the broad array of topics they had discussed, it was a bit like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack. She arched a brow at him in mock curiosity. “Don’t tell me--you’re actually Rasputin?”

“Disguised under a mountain of dirty facial hair...while ingenious, I think not,” he deadpanned.

“Well, you have proven quite remarkably difficult to kill. Just saying,” she replied, giggling.

Apparently he had a great deal of practice keeping a straight face. “Try again.”

“All right...we talked about dimensional theories.”

“Go on.”

For several minutes her mind leapt forward, processing connections like a spark gliding along wires until it came to her in a burst--a revelation, and she held herself perfectly still as the answer coalesced fully in her brain. “You found a way through the Veil,” she whispered, stunned.

His face creased into a smile, pleased, proud, and so beautiful that her heart clenched in her chest, the clear, resolute sense of purpose she’d held only a few minutes ago _there must be a way to reverse it_ punctured by a tiny but razor sharp thorn of doubt. “You had to have had help.”

“Actually, no--at least, not initially,” he explained, “though once I came through it was a simple matter to... _obtain_ what I needed.”

She tried to avoid thinking about the implications of that statement. “So then what? You just strolled out of the Department of Mysteries, past security and over a hundred witches and wizards, out the bloody front door of the Ministry?”

He absolutely radiated smugness, like some sort of perverse halo, “It was a deeply satisfying moment.”

Her entire body tensed abruptly as a sharp, toxic mix of rage and adrenaline flooded her system like poison.

As if in anticipation he tightened his arms around her in an iron grip, holding her pinioned against him.

“You... _bastard--_ ” she rasped, struggling, “it’s not right...after everything you’ve--fuck, let go!” She jerked and shifted, almost bringing her knee up and in response he swiftly locked his legs around hers, immobilizing her completely.

“If you expect me to _apologize_ ,” he spat, “for having the means and opportunity to escape from the dimensional _purgatory_ in which I was trapped, you’re fucking _delusional_.”

Whipping her head up to glare at him, she snarled, “I know you’re not sorry--you’re completely incapable of being sorry for _anything_ , but at least have the basic fucking _decency_ not to gloat about your crimes in my presence.”

Silence ensued; his face went dangerously blank, almost vacant as he stared at her. His eyes, though, were dark and turbulent, violence swimming just beneath the surface, and her difficulty in drawing breath at that moment had little to do with him physically restraining her.

“There was a time, not long ago, I would not have hesitated to kill anyone who dared speak to me as you have.”

“So what’s stopping you?” she shot back. Her neck was beginning to really ache now, but she couldn’t allow herself to break eye contact with him.

The flatness of his expression shifted ever so slightly--a nearly imperceptible tightening around his eyes. “I...don’t know. I find that...I don’t wish to. It is...perplexing.”

“Well, unless you want to suffocate me, you may want to loosen up a bit. I can’t breathe.”

Wordlessly he slid his arms apart and she dropped her head to his chest in relief. She supposed she should get up, get dressed, _get out while you still can_ , but she didn’t.

After several minutes she felt the feather like brush of his fingers against her skin once more as he resumed stroking her back. Silence became their truce, affirmed with soft kisses and the gentle slide of fingers against heated skin.

Nothing more was said between them for the next few hours.

* * *

 

The sun had climbed fully into the sky.

It was easily midday, perhaps even later.

“We should probably get dressed before the healer comes in,” she said softly.

There was a pause before he chuckled quietly and whispered, “Oh, they won’t come in. It’s not for lack of trying, though, I assure you.”

She was off him in an instant, even before the words had truly sunk into her brain, stumbling awkwardly off the narrow bed in her haste. “ _What?_ ”

Desperately she cast about the room for the familiar shape of her wand.

As he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his expression was neutral, but his eyes glittered with amusement. “Surely you didn’t want them barging in on us? How terribly awkward that would be. For you, obviously.”

Hermione wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but she asked anyway, “Who’s out there?”

He shrugged. “Everyone, I think.”

The desire to break his nose was nearly overwhelming.

“Take them down. Your wards, Tom. Take them down _now_.”

Naked, he stretched and stood, then with an effortless pulse of magic was fully dressed once more.

She continued to glare at him, her nails digging crescents into her palms until he rolled his eyes, flicking his hand dismissively. Her wand appeared in her hand, its smooth tapered length comforting and real and in a moment, she too was dressed.

“The wards will come down when we leave,” he answered, as he looked over her appraisingly. “It would appear you are sufficiently recovered.” With a subtle gesture, the few belongings she had carried with her flew neatly into his grasp. “Come. Let us be off.”

She shivered as if she’d just been doused with cold water. “Did you even listen to anything I said earlier?”

“Of course I _listened._ ” He seemed amused at her indignance.

“Then perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. I’m not going with you.”

Something fleeting crossed his features, angry and _pained_ but it was gone so quickly she wasn’t entirely certain she’d seen it in the first place.

“And _perhaps_ ,” he hissed, “you aren’t paying attention.” He moved closer, until he was barely inches from her face. “No other human has ever been privy to what you have today,” he breathed, curling his hand around the back of her neck, and tilting her head up.

She shifted uncomfortably in his grasp, though the contact of his fingers on her skin once again caused energy to skitter pleasantly across her nerve endings. And judging by the abrupt narrowing of his eyes and his swiftly indrawn breath, he was affected as well.

His struggle showed in the hard edge of his features. “You cannot just _ignore_ this, Hermione. Do you really imagine that you can simply resume your life as if nothing has changed? We are inextricably linked now, you and I.”

“And do you really expect me to simply _abandon_ everything--my friends, family, everyone--and run away with you?” she challenged. _There must be a way to reverse this._

He cocked a brow. “Ask a stupid question..” he trailed off.

She threw his hands off. “You’re _unbelievable!_ I mean--I get it, okay? You’ve spent a lifetime--and t _hen some_ \--manipulating the forces of magic in your insane quest to bend the world to your will!”

He couldn’t entirely conceal his flinch at her words, but then he sneered, “Interesting choice of words, Hermione. Some people say insanity is merely a refusal or inability to accept _reality_.”

“I just...I can’t.”

“You overestimate your friends, Hermione. They’re not going to understand you. Or this.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not, though I confess I--” he stalked away, fists clenched, frustrated, “fuck it, it doesn’t matter.” He faced her then, scowling. “You’ll just have to find out for yourself, then.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t reply; he reached out, barely touching his fingers to her cheek as he leaned in and kissed her. His eyes roved over her face. “Until next time.”

He disapparated. 

The instant after he vanished in a silent whirl of magic, there was a concussive boom as the wards he’d set shattered, rattling the heavy arched leaded glass windows so fiercely in their frames that for a few terrifying seconds she thought they might implode from the force.

It was distinctly anti climactic, then, when the wood paneled door quietly swung open, and Harry appeared.

Her first impulse was to rush to him, but she halted as he approached slowly, tentatively, as if she was a spooked animal, concern and uncertainty etched across his features. “Hermione?” he asked, carefully.

“Harry, what--?”

Apparently he reached some conclusion, for the next moment he flew to her, folding her into his arms and hugging her fiercely. “Hermione! _Bloody hell_ you gave us all a fright, but it’s all right now, you’re going to be all right.”

“I’m fine. Harry. Really.”

He held her tightly, almost desperately, for a full minute, his chin tucked against her shoulder, then pulled back, eyes trained on her face, his hands still holding onto her arms as if he was afraid she would disappear. “How on Earth did you—never mind, they said something like this might happen.”

Pulling away from him she asked, “Harry, could you please explain what are you talking about? You’re not making sense. Something like what?”

“I’m not making sense?” he whispered in a rush, disbelief in his tone. “Hermione, we’ve been absolutely _frantic_. You really have no idea?”

She shook her head, unease coiling through her belly in slow, curdling strands.

“Twenty four hours ago you staggered through Mungo’s front entrance and _collapsed_. They had just gotten you to a room and started treating you when suddenly no one could get in here, and I mean _no one_ ,” he emphasized, “not even Bill. You had us all locked out properly.”

Frozen like a statue, she stared at him.

Harry eyed her with undisguised trepidation. “Ron told me what happened. The healer said there could be some strange effects on your magic, after what you experienced, but—damn, we were worried you might die in here, _alone_ , and,” his voice faltered, his composure unraveling, “I’m just…” He hugged her again, held her and didn’t let go. “I’m just so glad you’re safe,” he murmured in relief.

There was a growing, gnawing dread in her gut that she was afraid to give voice to, and Tom’s words echoed in her head mockingly _insanity is a refusal or inability to accept reality._

_A refusal or inability to accept reality._

_To accept reality._

She barely heard him as he continued in a rueful whisper, “You’re going to think I’m a complete prat, but when we couldn’t break through I had this flashback, you know? To the war. I mean, the only person who could ever set wards like that was Voldemort, and he’s _dead_...It’s ridiculous, I know.”

She sagged against him, inordinately thankful that, at that moment, he could not see her face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- Don’t hate me. 
> 
> So….yeah. Part Four is coming.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I own nothing of Harry Potter. I would like to thank the lovely ShayaLonnie for looking over this. 
> 
> Guys. GUIZE. I know. 
> 
> First, this chapter was an absolute bitch to write. Between that and everything else going on, life has been one gigantic time suck. Anyway, enjoy!

**Part Four**

Outwardly, Hermione still appeared fairly normal -- if a bit haggard -- but as the weeks dragged by she slowly came undone, like a dying planet flung loose from its orbit, spiralling inexorably downward to its destruction.

There was no sign of Tom. 

Missing him was like a physical ache, a persistent, prickling sensation in her limbs that never entirely went away, coupled with a growing aversion to the smell and texture of food. When she did manage to sleep, her dreams were plagued by visions of him. Mocking her. In some of them, he killed her, a flash of green illuminating the sharp, pale planes of his sneering face. 

She was restless, irritable and anxious, and the only word she could find that seemed to adequately describe what she was experiencing was _withdrawal._

She did not want to consider the long term implications of that. 

She tried to find solace in the one constant left to her: her intellect. Closing herself off like a hermit inside the labs of the now shuttered Weasley’s Wheezes, she vainly attempted to rearrange the fragments of her former life into something remotely recognizable. 

But where before, she could close her eyes and visualize with effortless clarity arithmantic equations, runes, even passages she’d read only once, it now took nearly every ounce of her concentration to simply function. 

Weekly visits to a mind healer brought her no relief; as far as everyone was concerned, her  
symptoms were attributed to neurological damage resulting from a potion overdose.

As far as everyone was concerned, he did not exist. 

And after many days of being poked, prodded and tested to no avail, she began to believe they were right. Many nights, all she could do was kneel in the center of her kitchen, forehead and palms pressed against the cool ceramic tile of the floor, praying for it all to stop. 

Had her sanity -- thin and fragile and tenuously strung as a filament in a light bulb -- simply  
snapped? Was it possible that everything she’d experienced and felt was just a delusion conjured from some previously undiagnosed psychological weakness that had lain dormant, just  
waiting for the proper catalyst in order to manifest?

The fear that it had, that she was now already too far gone, fundamentally broken and insane clenched in her gut like a vise. 

It kept her silent. 

Because if he was real, why didn’t he come to her?

* * *

The silence of the once bustling lab was a comfort, as she found it increasingly difficult to manage the distraction of ordinary ambient noise. 

Ignoring the slight tremor in her hand, Hermione carefully squeezed the contents of a slender glass pipette into a test tube holding a tiny, measured portion of elixir, and waited. 

There was an instantaneous reaction; her heartbeat stuttered, a tiny flare of hope surging as the liquid shimmered faintly, it’s color swirling and shifting for a moment and then...nothing. She tapped her wand against the vial and muttered a spell. 

The liquid remained inert. 

It hadn’t worked. 

For several minutes she stared blankly at the complex assembly of vials and tubing, waiting for the anticipated swell of disappointment to wash over her, but instead the pit of her stomach began to bubble with something unexpected, something sharp and toxic. 

Rage. 

Her hands began to shake. She had tried everything she could think of to reverse the effects of the elixir, but with her abilities so thoroughly compromised, it seemed a foregone conclusion that she would fail. 

The last, slender thread of hope that she’d clung to was severed clean away. 

She couldn’t see how she would possibly continue to function with the most basic parts of herself -- that formed her personality, gave her life structure and meaning -- permanently out of reach. 

George might as well have killed her. 

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, her breathing hitched, grew ragged, and she screamed, her magic violently erupting forth, cascading outward through the lab like a shockwave. 

Every test tube and vial at her workstation exploded, showering her in tiny shards that nicked and sliced her skin, some of them embedding in her flesh like shrapnel while other pieces stuck in her hair and clothing. 

She just stood there, panting and bleeding as she heard a sudden rush of footsteps. 

She whirled to face whoever was coming, unable to suppress a momentary pang of hope and yearning that flared, only to dissolve as she realized it was Harry bursting through the door, wand drawn.

“Hermione!”

Quickly he advanced on her, his eyes darting around as he took in the scene. 

Her eyes met his for a moment, then shifted past him, to fix on the door. Her body was a mess of jittery, tingling nerve endings and before she could gather herself she felt her eyes burn with tears as her mood once again threatened to twist and swoop like a roller coaster. 

God, it was just so fucking stupid. 

Tom wasn’t going to come. Ever. 

He didn’t exist. 

“Hermione?” Harry’s voice finally pierced her fog. He was taking her arm, gently tugging her away from the debris-strewn work table. 

With a start, she realized a long, awkward minute had passed where she’d been staring at the door, unresponsive. When she looked back to him, his expression was stricken, his green eyes reflecting an emotion akin to horror. He swallowed hard, then raised his wand. “Hold still.” 

A light breeze ruffled through her hair as he removed all the broken bits of glass. 

_“Episkey,”_ he murmured, moving his wand in an arc over her head. Tiny pinpricks of heat skittered across her skin as he healed the multitude of cuts. 

“Harry,” she whispered. 

“You were expecting someone else?” His tone was deceptively light, and his mouth quirked up a fraction on one side, but his eyes were still tight with worry. 

For a split second, she went stiff, though thankfully, Harry seemed oblivious to her hesitation, sliding his arms around her and rubbing her back with one hand. “Rough day?” he quietly asked. 

“You could say that.” She felt like a raw nerve, oversensitive and exposed.Then, as the backwash of adrenaline subsided, her head cleared enough to voice the thought that had appeared the moment he stepped into the lab. "What are you doing here?" 

“Healer Bridgit has been trying to locate you all morning. Said it was important. I figured you would be here.” 

“Are you my keeper now, Harry?” 

“Course not. We’ve just been...worried about you.” 

“Bit late for that,” she replied, her voice flat. 

_She was already too far gone._

The words looped in her head like a mantra.

* * *

“Miss Granger, please have a seat.”

A well practiced, blandly pleasant smile was fixed on Healer Bridgit’s face as she greeted her. 

Hermione supposed it was meant to put her at ease. 

It didn’t. 

“Thank you,” she answered as she perched herself on the edge of the seat, back straight. Though the office was designed to be cozy -- painted in a soothing, warm palette, with a pair of large, comfortable overstuffed chairs in front of the healer’s desk--Hermione found it rather claustrophobic and was never able to fully relax during her visits here. 

“There is some...rather sensitive information on your case I need to discuss with you.”

Harry, who’d lingered awkwardly between the chairs and the door, said, “I’ll just wait outside, then.”

“You might as well stay,” she said, looking at him pointedly. She saw the healer glance at him, a faintly questioning look flickering across her face.

Turning back toward the healer Hermione asked, “So there has been some headway? You’ve found a treatment?”

There was genuine sympathy in Healer Bridgit’s eyes as she replied, “I am afraid there is nothing new to report in that regard. I am sorry,” she paused a moment as Hermione sucked in a breath and nodded, then added, “to be honest, we have to begin considering this as your new normal, and as such, we need to evaluate the potential complications your condition may have on your pregnancy, if it turns out to even be viable.”

Time slowed to a trickle as her words sunk in. 

She was pregnant. 

_He was real._

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harry jolt visibly before regaining his composure. 

The healer spoke again, but her voice was drowned out as blood began to pound in her ears and everything inside her brain coalesced into one single, all-encompassing thought. 

_She was not insane._

She shot to her feet, nearly toppling her chair backward to the floor. 

She needed to get out of there. 

“Miss Granger--” Healer Bridgit raised her hands in a placating gesture, her face alarmed, “please, dear. Take a deep breath. We have to run further tests--”

“No,”she cut her off, her voice loud and harsh in her ears. “I just...I need to--”

_He was real. She was not insane._

Rising from her seat, the healer announced, “I’m going to summon assistance--”

“Don’t,” Harry interjected as he also quickly stood up, “It’s alright. I’ll...I’ll see she gets home safely.” 

Hermione barely noticed as Harry grasped her elbow, then gently steered her out of the office, into the cool quiet of the corridor toward the Floo.

* * *

When they emerged from the fireplace inside her flat, Harry let out a breath. “I knew he was wrong. I knew it,” he said, with quiet vindication. 

Hermione squinted at him in confusion for a second until she processed his words. What was he on about--? _Oh, God._

“This whole time--”

“Harry,” she interrupted, her voice strained, but he continued as if he hadn’t heard her.

“--all those awful things Ron said about--”

“Please. Stop,” she implored, desperation leaking into her tone.

“--you having an affair, but it was all shite, and now--”

“It’s not Ron’s!” she burst out. 

He froze, then his eyes widened in surprise and confusion before his expression morphed into betrayal. 

They stared at each other, silence an uncomfortable, oppressive weight between them.   
“Hermione, what the hell is going on?” 

Though his reaction was almost oddly comforting for its sheer predictability, she couldn’t help but bristle. “That’s rather intrusive, don’t you think?” she said, defensively. “That particular facet of my life is not your concern, Harry.”

“Not my--” he echoed in disbelief. “I fucking _defended_ you! I told Ron there was no bloody way in hell you would ever--” he broke off, face screwing up in distaste as if he couldn’t bring himself to say whatever word hovered on the tip of his tongue, _“fuck around!”_ he finished, his voice strident as his agitation swelled like a wave. 

Of course she hadn’t expected him to understand, this was Harry, after all. As perceptive and caring a friend as he was, he operated within very set, narrow parameters of morality.

“I never asked you to defend me!”

“You’re--” he spluttered, “you’re bloody _pregnant!_ ”

“And again, my personal relationships are your concern how, precisely?” 

He glared at her, making a frustrated sound, his fists balled up, “George’s memories have been altered. Or weren’t you aware?”

She reeled back in surprise. _“What?”_

“You heard me. So unless you just experienced some sort of _immaculate bloody conception_ , I have a pretty strong feeling you know more about this than you’re telling me.”

The accusation in his voice was like a punch to the gut. 

He must have taken her stunned silence as permission to barrel on. “According to George’s memory, you were alone -- only you weren’t, were you?”

This shift, this startlingly rapid transition from trusted friend and brother figure to callously impersonal inquisitor clearly meant that he’d chosen a side. 

And it wasn’t hers. 

“Harry James Potter,” she interrupted, enunciating each word as if his name held the weight of her reprobation, “I will _not_ be interrogated--”

“--And I examined the vial. If you’d taken the entire amount of elixir, it would have killed you--”

At this her jaw actually dropped. “George drugged -- no, he _poisoned_ me! Which very nearly did kill me, or have you bloody well forgotten that part?” A slow, prickling hum was working its way up from her feet to her fingertips as her anger mounted. 

“Of course not! But...fuck, Hermione! He doesn’t bloody _remember_ how he even knew you’d be at that fucking coffee shop that day!” 

“How is that supposed to justify--wait,” she paused as comprehension dawned on her, “How long have you known this?” 

His expression was still rigid with anger, but he grimaced, and she felt sick as something inside her splintered and broke. There would be no going back from this. 

“Since...immediately after it happened. I mean...there were things that didn’t make sense. Signs. I began to suspect his memory had been tampered with. And I was right.” 

He -- well, all of them-- had seemed caring and concerned but _distant_ , never fully engaging with her, and she had wondered if that too was simply part of her warped perceptions -- but now it all clicked into place. 

“This whole entire time,” she could barely get the words out, her head was practically buzzing, heat pooling behind her eyes, “you thought I had just covered my tracks, didn’t you? You never said a word! Instead, you let me think I was--” she choked, the word _insane_ hanging in the air, unspoken. 

“It wasn’t like that!”

“You need to leave,” she said thickly, _“now.”_

“Look, none of us can imagine what you’ve been dealing with, alright? So...help me understand. Just tell me something. Anything.”

It was her tipping point, and then some. The tingling in her hands intensified. 

“Get out!” 

The sofa burst into thick, smoky flames. 

Harry took a reflexive step back, shock rippling across his features even as he quickly jabbed his wand toward the burning couch. _“Aguamenti.”_

For a moment, he appeared as though he was about about to speak. Instead, he simply straightened and with a last, regretful glance he turned on the spot. 

Trembling, she sank into the nearest chair, tears sliding down her cheeks. 

As she surveyed the ruined furniture, a cold clarity slowly began to settle over her. Tom had been right about one thing; she’d overestimated her friends, if she could even call them that now. They would have sat back and watched as the fire within her own mind burnt her to a crisp. Measured against that, her own sin did not quite compare. 

She knew one thing, though. She had dangerously underestimated Tom. 

She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

* * *

Harry sat hunched over the breakfast bar in the softly lit quiet of his kitchen, drumming the fingers of one hand against the side of a mug of rapidly cooling tea with one hand and massaging his temple with the other. 

To say his conversation with Hermione could have gone better was the bloody understatement of the year. Possibly the decade. 

He’d been a complete arse, too focused on was his own self-righteous outrage to see the bigger picture. 

There were a great many things he had royally fucked up over the years. 

But this…

Something was going on here that made his stomach tighten with anxiety. It was a puzzle with the largest piece still missing. 

Even worse, not only had he willfully ignored seeing just how damaged she actually was, he’d blindly disregarded the fact that a second person--maybe even a Muggle--was out there, quite possibly in worse condition than she was. It was bloody negligence, pure and simple. 

Hermione needed far more help than he would ever be qualified to offer -- not that she would even speak to him right now. He doubted she would ever willingly consent to going into long term treatment at Mungo’s, especially now that...

He sat up sharply. 

She was pregnant. 

There were so many unanswered questions about the entire situation, not the least of which being... _who the bloody hell was the father?_

And if Hermione hadn’t altered George’s memory, who had?

* * *

Despite her most potent _evanesco,_ and throwing open every window in her flat, the acrid stench of melted fabric proved too much for her. She returned to lab, determined to occupy herself until she sorted out a solution to at least one of her many problems. 

Hermione grabbed a quill, and was jotting down notes, fully absorbed in her writing when her eyes flicked up suddenly as every nerve in her body seemed to go on alert. 

He was coming. 

She could feel it. 

The room came alive, the fine hairs on her neck rising up as she sensed the abrupt shift, his magical signature splitting the air like a siren only she could hear. 

Without a sound, he materialized, standing several meters from her. He was thin, pale, and disheveled, with dark circles under his eyes. 

He looked like shit. 

Still, she didn’t hesitate. “You bastard,” she hissed, flicking her wand at him. 

He flew back, crashing into a large wooden cabinet before landing roughly on all fours on the floor. His head whipped up, teeth bared in a snarl, and his eyes now bore into hers with a crazed, feral intensity. 

Her heart lurched in her chest. He had finally snapped. 

He was utterly unhinged, his magic rolling off him like heat from a flame -- thick, sharp, and furious. 

He was going to kill her. 

And all she could feel in that moment was relief.

He quickly pulled himself into a crouch and launched himself bodily at her. 

She opened her arms wide as if to embrace him and waited.

* * *

**(Aaaannnd...I’m still not done. We’re almost there, though. I swear! Thank you all for reading, and if you liked it, please review!)**


	5. Part Five

With a deep, ferocious growl Tom leapt for her, quickly closing the gap between them, and even as she spread her arms wide, _this is it this is how it ends,_ time unspooling like a slowed down, flickering film reel, she still marveled at how their basic chemistry - the molecules and particles of their being - could be so fundamentally altered for this to even have been possible.

Hermione noticed, then, that she was trembling. A fraction of a second later, she realized it was not from fear. 

It was _anticipation._

Her entire body practically vibrated with _want,_ and all her determination and resolve threatened to fly out the window at the intense, breathtaking need to touch him, touch him _all over_ flooding through her from the roots of her hair to the soles of her feet. _Fight it need to fight -_

He tackled her hard then, swiftly locking his arms around her torso, his momentum lifting her off her feet and hurling her violently backwards like a ragdoll. He clutched her tightly against his body in a bruising grip as they sailed, literally airborne, across the lab. 

Almost instantly, the dizzying sensation of hurtling through air was eclipsed by the blinding rush of pure, liquid bliss pulsing through her nervous system like an electric shock as their bodies collided. Her eyes rolled back, and she only distantly registered the sting of one of her hips grazing the sharp corner of the large, marble topped workstation where she’d conducted the bulk of her research. Fight - _Oh God._

Crashing down to the floor in a chaotic jumble of limbs, her breath was knocked out of her in an explosive _whoosh_ and as his weight slammed down onto her smaller frame, Hermione heard a faint, but audible crack. 

It might have been one of his knees or an elbow, but she couldn’t be sure, and he didn’t appear to care in the least. As it was, she was just barely aware enough to notice her skull would have struck the floor rather sharply - had he not somehow retained the presence of mind to snake one hand up into the thick, unruly mass of her hair, effectively cradling her head and allowing his knuckles to take the brunt of the impact. 

As they rolled across the polished tile floor of the lab, he fisted her hair, yanked her head back and sank his teeth possessively into the soft flesh at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, as if marking her. She arched into him and dug her nails into his back deeply enough to pierce his skin as her senses spiraled into overload, nearly overwhelming the tiny, remaining sliver of awareness she clung to. She fought the urge to simply give herself over, to abandon all conscious thought and surrender to the glorious tidal wave of sensation.

Still clutching her tightly, Tom shuddered against her, an elongated moan escaping him as they came to a halt against a tall metal storage cabinet. He pinned her to the floor with his body, then released his teeth from her neck and ran the tip of his tongue back and forth over the marks he’d just made. She shivered and rocked her hips against the hard, insistent press of his cock against her belly. 

She wanted him so very badly. 

But she wanted to remain herself _more._

With a burst of strength she managed to shove him off, and it was _agony._

For a moment he just laid there on his side, disoriented, his arms still extended as if to embrace her and she ruthlessly smothered the visceral pang of longing she felt at how his face was a heart wrenching mix of confusion, hurt and arousal. 

She forced herself to remember, then, just how insidiously he had manipulated her. She had suspected all along, of course, that their meetings served some fucked up agenda of his, but knowing that the leverage he’d used to coerce her was completely fabricated was like being doused with a bucket of ice water.

She rolled away from him just as he was reaching his hand out to her. “It was all lies,” she croaked as she got to her feet, “all of it.” 

It seemed to take a moment for him to come back to himself and absorb what she said, but then his eyes narrowed, he cocked his head to one side, his lip curling into a sneer. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific, darling.”

Putting a hand on a nearby countertop to steady herself, she added, “they were never looking for you. They have no idea you’re even alive.”

“And you certainly didn’t go out of your way to inform them of that, did you?” 

It was a struggle to tamp down the sudden, staggering urge to punch him in the the testicles.

“Don’t you _dare_ use my fear that you would harm those I care about against me!,” she spat as once again her fingertips began to tingle with magic. It crackled over her nerves like static, only this time it seemed to energize her, heighten her focus. 

She didn’t miss how his gaze locked on her, his expression shifting from sharp and irritated to something darker - eager and almost hungry as he smoothly stood, then stalked over her. 

“My original intention was to kill you,” he said, casually, as if he were simply discussing the latest book he’d read, or his favorite type of tea. “The first time I saw you, after returning to this life, I found I could not resist the impulse to punish those who had thwarted me.”

“Why didn’t you, then? Why the elaborate charade?”

“There’s a certain lack of subtlety and finesse in just cursing you in the street, don’t you think?”

“Never stopped you before,” she retorted. 

“But where would the satisfaction be in cutting short the game and just ending you?”

A game. It was all a game. Of course it was. 

Even as his words made her stomach clench in a tight, horrified knot, the slow, simmering burn continued to work its way up her spine. “This is such _bullshit_.”

He moved closer, into her personal space, looming over her as he continued, “I decided to draw it out, create a scenario where you felt compelled to meet with me,” his eyes glittered with manic energy as his face twisted into an avid, malicious smile, “to savor every moment of your pain before I tormented your friends by doing away with you in as gruesome a manner as I possibly could.”

“You sick... _bastard_ ,” she hissed, pivoting closer to him so that their faces were now only inches apart from each other. The air around them was beginning to crackle with magic, building like static electricity waiting to be discharged, “defying the natural order of the universe _again_ wasn’t enough -”

Briefly, his eyes flicked to the rectangular work table behind her as it’s black, laminated surface began to blister and smoke before looking back to her. 

Her voice was rising, amplified by the nearly palpable rage taking hold of her, “escaping undetected from the Ministry undetected wasn’t _enough_.” 

She jabbed his chest with her index finger, and he momentarily flinched as if she was branding him with a hot iron, “Once again, you _squander_ your very life, not to mention an absolute surfeit of talent and intelligence on your petty, pathetic machinations of revenge.” 

“What greater punishment is there, than to rob one’s enemy of that which they hold most dear?” he snapped, growing visibly more agitated in return. 

“Is that why you poisoned me?” she accused, her tone sharp, ringing with condemnation, “to steal my mind, make me think I was insane?”

“Now that, I did not do.”

“Just... _stop it!_ You orchestrated everything else without a second thought, why draw the line there?”

“Because it hardly benefits me to risk poisoning myself with some magically infused, unstable chemical compound with no known antidote!”

“It didn’t benefit you to divide your soul up like a bloody pizza, and render yourself completely batshit insane in the process, but you still did it!”

“Are you so _limited_ that it’s impossible to imagine that something bad could happen to you without my having a hand in it?” 

“ _Limited_ ,” she echoed, eyes narrowing dangerously, “shall we discuss _your_ limitations?” Behind her, the table suddenly erupted into flames. “Where should I start?”

“I’m beginning to think it was insane not to kill you when I had the chance.”

“Well, come on then,” she taunted, gesturing toward herself, voice rising to a shout as the last shreds of her composure fell away, “have at it!”

The work table exploded then in a deadly hail of flaming splinters and shrapnel.

“Enough!” Tom shouted, thrusting his arm forward, his palm upright. Bracing herself for an attack, she brought her wand up defensively, only to pause as a shimmering blue shield sprang into being, deflecting the debris away from them as it rained down onto the floor of the lab. 

Their eyes met, for a full minute she stared at him in disbelief. “I thought you came here to kill me.”

His arms dropped to his sides, and the shield winked out of existence. “No, Hermione.” He looked tired, even defeated. 

“But you said-”

He cut her off. “I wanted to, yes. At first, more than anything, I _burned_ to make you _suffer_...but now,” he then grimaced, his face contorting as if he was in pain, “I cannot,” he growled, scrunching his eyes shut and shaking his head, “I _cannot_. I am _ruined_ \- a pale shadow of what I once was.” He staggered a few steps away, a frustrated groan escaping him, then he reached both hands up and grasped handfuls of his hair. “Madness was preferable to this crippling weakness of _feeling_.”

At that, it sank in fully that he had no intention of killing her, that he was as much a slave to this strange, magical euphoria as she was, that he was _right_ \- he was a wreck - beautiful, dangerous, and so very, very damaged. After weeks spent teetering on the edge, watching her fragile grasp on her own sanity falter, she wondered, then, what it must have been like for him. 

“Why did you stay away?” _Why didn’t you come to me?_

“I believed, perhaps foolishly, that I could prevail over these...emotions.” A wry, somewhat bitter expression flickered across his features. “I have defeated death, after all. But this…” he trailed off, seemingly at a loss. “There is no sense, no _order-_ ”

Without thinking Hermione swept over to him, silencing him with the soft press of her fingers against his lips, then sliding her arms around his waist and kissing him, hard. Once again she marveled at the warm, delicious tingle that danced over her skin as they touched. 

It was chemistry, and it was magic, combined in a manner never seen before and impossible to replicate. 

“ _Hermione,_ ” he said, his voice raw, laced with an almost desperate urgency, and Merlin, she hadn’t realized how much she truly wanted him until that moment. Pulling her close, he effortlessly lifted her, setting her atop an adjacent worktable. He leaned forward, crashing his lips against hers, reaching up to grasp the sides of her face, sliding his tongue across the seam of her mouth before gently nipping on her plump lower lip. 

His hands slid back down, cupped and caressed her breasts. A soft moan escaped her as his thumbs grazed her sensitive nipples, then his hands skimmed down further, over her thighs, under the hem of her dress, then up to hook around the elastic of her knickers, all while she frantically worked at unfastening the buttons on his trousers and shirt. 

As soon their clothing was discarded he reached around, grabbed her ass with both hands and roughly yanked her closer to the edge of the table, then grabbed her hip, holding her in place as he gripped his cock and lined himself up with her sex. She wrapped her legs around him, a breathless whimper escaping her as he rolled his hips and slid into her in one smooth movement. 

Their position allowed him easy access to her clit, something he took full advantage of as he thrust into her in a slow, sensuous rhythm. Her head tipped forward to rest on his shoulder, lips pressed to the pulsepoint at the base of his neck as the pace and intensity of his movements gradually increased. 

The friction was exquisite, it was _overwhelming,_ and she cried out, grinding against him as his thrusts became harder, almost frenzied, his hips pumping as he pounded into her again and again, his fingers circling and teasing her clit until she tipped over the edge and came with a shriek.   
He pushed himself deep into her, holding himself still until the tight, pulsing contractions of her sex around his cock had abated. Then without warning he pulled out of her, quickly pushing her onto her back on the table and climbing on top of her. He hitched her legs over his shoulders and groaned as he plunged into her again, holding her in place. Then he was slamming into her, hard, his teeth nipping along her collarbone and shoulder, and all she could do was hold on, her arms clutched around his neck, until he shuddered and moaned and emptied himself inside her. 

Later, as they lay nestled together, still on the table, he raised himself up on one elbow to look at her, idly swirling a lock of her hair around his finger. Already, the manic glint in his eyes had diminished dramatically. 

She regarded him seriously. “I’m still not entirely convinced that all of this wasn’t your doing.” In a whisper, she added, bracing herself for a reaction, “I know you altered George’s memories.”

Without releasing her wound up curl, he answered, “Yes. I removed his memory of my presence. It was for your sake, as well as mine.” 

“So...you were just doing me a favor out of the goodness of your heart? Oh wait. That would be an oxymoron, wouldn’t it?”

“Would you have preferred if I’d simply ended his wretched existence? He certainly earned it.”

“Of course not,” she replied, an exasperated edge creeping into her voice, “Unlike you, I understand that _homicide_ is not a panacea for all of life’s problems.” 

She wasn’t expecting him to burst out laughing, rich, resonant, and genuine, and she certainly wasn’t expecting the fluttering excitement in her stomach at its sound. 

Playfully brushing her across her nose with the lock of hair, he said, “It’s worked well enough for me so far.”

“You seem to forget they’re called _Unforgivables_ for very good reason.”

He scoffed, “Bloody Hell, woman. What sort of an imbecile do you take me for? I’m well aware of Weasley’s track record. If I had tried to _Imperio_ a moron of his caliber, it’s likely the entire bloody cafe would have ended up drugged!”

Her initial instinct, a sharp retort in defense of George, died on her lips. At best, her emotions toward him were conflicted, ambivalent. All the caring and camaraderie and shared tribulations over the years had essentially been erased in one thoughtless, frivolous act, the deeper significance of which remained that he had harmed her, permanently and severely, because he'd valued getting one over on her more highly than her safety. 

Damn him. He had a point. Still. 

“I believe they call that getting a taste of your own medicine, in your case, quite literally.”

With a slightly frustrated sigh, he said, “believe what you will. In any case, I have not abandoned my efforts to find the means to reverse this.”

“I tried. Repeatedly,” she explained, “the catalyst was just too unstable.There was no way to isolate it and keep it in suspension long enough to ever thoroughly analyze it, let alone produce any sort of neutralizing agent.” 

He bent down, kissing and nuzzling her breasts as she carded her fingers through his dark, wavy hair. Lifting his mouth from her flesh, he said, “So we’ll combine our efforts, then. Experiment on ourselves, if necessary.”

Her mouth went dry as the implications of his words swirled around her head. It wasn’t even just that she was pregnant - which, God, she hadn’t had time to process _herself,_ let alone figure out how in Merlin’s name she was to go about revealing it to him - but that finding a cure meant losing _this._

It also meant that whatever meager shreds of humanity or emotion he’d been imbued with would be lost as well. Once again, he would be unleashed upon the world at large, unrestrained by the bounds of compassion or mercy. Certainly, she wasn’t prepared for that eventuality, and never would be. “I can’t do that.” 

One corner of his mouth quirked up. “It’s not like you to shy away from a challenge,” he murmured, before resuming his ministrations. 

“It’s... _complicated_ now.”

“Oh? How so?”

She swallowed hard. There was no dodging this bullet. “Because I’m -”

Just then, a familiar voice called out. “Hermione? Are you in here? We need to talk-” 

The door to the lab abruptly slammed open, startling them both and sending them lurching upright. She scrambled to grab her dress, clutching it in front of her bare chest as her stomach lurched in dismay at the intruder. 

It was Harry. 

_Oh, fuck._

Harry froze, skidding to a halt as he saw them, the color draining from his face as he recognized Tom. 

There was a long, agonizingly uncomfortable moment as Tom and Harry eyed each other. Harry’s face was strained and had gone an unhealthy gray, as if he was possibly going to be sick. Tom observed him closely, his expression composed, impassive, even though he was barefoot, shirtless, his hair still rumpled from their lovemaking. 

Despite his obvious shock, though, Harry held his wand firmly trained on Tom. _“You.”_

A slow, satisfied smirk curled Tom’s mouth. “Hello, Harry. Miss me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: It’s an established fact that I suck.**
> 
> **One more to go. And many, many thanks to Bee, who is the best cheerleader ever.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is where I should talk about what's been going on most of the last year, and I just can't really do it. Honestly, suffice it to say that it has sucked in a pretty spectacular way. And...it's not over yet.
> 
> I have to be upfront and say that this story is not quite completely over, but in order to do the story justice, and not make people wait another freakin year for a new chapter, I'm posting this now- and hopefully when you get to the end of the chapter you will see why I stopped there.
> 
> Enjoy, I don't own anything, and many thanks to Bee for cheerleading and moral support, and Disillusionist9 for making sure that I'm not completely incompetent.

**Chapter Six**

Hermione watched, still as a statue, hardly daring to breathe, as her deepest held fear began to unfold before her with the inexorable horror of a train wreck.

She tried to swallow her shock, tried in vain to harness the adrenaline now pulsing through her to propel herself into motion, into action, into _something_ other than the mortified paralysis rooting her in place. But it was no use. All she could do, it seemed, was stare as the two men squared off, their angry magics causing the air to crackle and hum with electricity as her brain spun uselessly in place like a broken flywheel.

Why was Harry even here? She did not understand why he would come, now, when barely more than a few hours had passed since the acrimonious, most likely irrevocable splintering of their friendship. After all, what words were there possibly left to say? In any other circumstances they could apologize, make entreaties to the once enduring length and solidity of their bond. But for all their years of camaraderie and shared tribulation, of fighting side by side, of holding each other in the dark when hope was as precious and rare as a candle flame, they had failed each other - miserably.

Harry was shaking his head, as if the power of his denial could alter the reality of what he was seeing. She felt a sharp pang of regret, then, because she knew there would be no chance of reconciling now, or ever. He'd just walked in on her sitting naked and disheveled, looking rather obviously _well fucked_ with the one single person in the entire bloody universe who could truly be considered the bane of his existence, a long conquered nightmare come back to life.

It was, without a doubt, the nuclear apocalypse of all worst case scenarios.

_"Hello, Harry. Miss me?"_

Slowly, Harry circled around the table, his wand now leveled at Tom's face. "About as much as the Plague, _Riddle_ ," he ground out, harshly, though the force of his words was undermined by his expression, which was drawn into a taut, almost pained grimace. His eyes, still wide with shock and horrified disbelief flicked to her, and she noticed, then, a perceptible trembling of his hand.

From her perch atop the table, Hermione sucked in a sharp breath and fumbled to yank her dress down over her head. The whirling jumble of thoughts and feelings surrounding his sudden appearance fell away with the stark, jolting realization that Harry was on the verge of _completely losing his shit._

Which was a completely understandable, normal reaction, but still. This was bad. Very bad.

Even in the most desperate, most dire moments when they'd counted themselves lucky to simply survive she'd never seen him so _visibly_ unnerved, so...freaked out.

For the first time in all the years she'd known him, the well woven thread of his composure, that had withstood the harrowing strain of war and death, had withstood headlong, frantic flights through city streets and rough, wooded terrain - all the while fortified with an innate, steely resilience and nearly unshakable resolve in the face of overwhelming, seemingly insurmountable odds - was unraveling right before her eyes. She stared at him, horrified.

Harry had never been _fragile_ , or easily spooked.

Under duress, he could be impulsive, unpredictable, even reckless as a matter of course. But now? All his easy, fluid agility seemed to have abandoned him as he moved in an awkward half crouch, his arm held out in a rigid line away from his body.

And _God_ , the look in his eyes reminded her of a cornered animal in that final moment just before the will to survive overcomes raw, paralyzing terror and it lashes out - desperate, enraged and heedless of the damage it might inflict. It sent a sick, heavy coil of dread looping through her gut.

She feared, then, with a stark, dreadful certainty that one of them was going to die here.

She also knew that if somehow Tom did not survive this encounter, then neither would she.

And she still loved Harry.

She did, even after everything that had happened. Whatever it was she actually felt for Tom was not nearly so unconflicted, solid, or even safe. She certainly couldn't call it love, no. Not even close. It was this insane, inexplicably electric attraction - trapped in orbit in some nether space between compulsion and desire, layered with all manner of nagging doubt and shame tinged guilt. It was a fucking mess, and the only discernible end she could imagine was the certain doom of a car careening off a cliff.

Still. Kinship, love, and loyalty aside, there was simply no conceivable way she would ever willingly return to the nightmarish, impaired half life that she'd endured for the last several weeks.

_The better choice wasn't always the Devil you knew._

Neither of them noticed as she quietly slid off the table.

Tom's body language remained relaxed and open, almost friendly as he watched Harry, but though he was smiling, his eyes were wary, hawk like.

"How…" Harry broke off, his throat bobbing as he swallowed, "how many times do I _have to kill you?_ " he asked, a brittle edge to his voice that hinted at the panic bubbling just below the surface.

Tom's his face lit up, his mouth curving into a broad, devilish grin. "Ah, Harry, you haven't changed a bit," he laughed, "Such earnest self righteousness, if perhaps a bit... _deluded_. I find that... comforting, somehow."

"Fuck you!" Harry spat, his voice cracking slightly.

In a blur of motion, too fast for her to fully process, Tom's wand was in his hand and with a single, forceful jab outward an intense, shimmering pulse of magic erupted forth, sending Harry hurtling backwards, his wand flying, slamming him into the wall and pinning him in place. "Mind your manners, boy," he growled, the timbre of his voice growing higher and sharper.

Even his body language and posture shifted as he stalked towards an immobilized Harry, and it was startling - chilling, in fact, to see him morph so effortlessly. The cool, industrial fluorescent style lighting of the laboratory lent an almost otherworldly gleam to his pale, bare chest and arms, muscles rippling under his skin as he moved, and in that instant he was once again unmistakably _Voldemort_ \- dark and fearsome, yet shockingly _magnetic_. She couldn't take her eyes off him.

Harry's features were twisted into a fearful, yet defiant grimace."I've beaten you twice. If anyone's deluded, Riddle, it's you."

"And yet, for all your effort…" he gestured to himself, then shrugged, "here I am."

"Yeah," Harry managed to sneer before chuckling weakly, "You're like a fucking _cockroach_."

Tom made a vicious, slashing motion with his wand, and Harry screamed. He held him there, under a brutal torrent of energy as Harry writhed and twitched in agony.

Her fingers briefly tingled with the familiar, instinctive urge to stride forward, jam her wand into the hollow of Tom's throat and simply blow him halfway across the lab, because he'd apparently reverted to a deranged, sadistic arsehole, and she wasn't going to bloody well stand by and watch as he mercilessly tortured Harry.

She took a step, then hesitated.

Perhaps she could help Harry escape with his life - one last time - but she had to remain calm, had to somehow bring her wits to bear and focus enough to defuse the equivalent of an incendiary missile capable of obliterating everything in its path. Glancing around the glass littered lab, she hastily considered her options.

"Tom." Hermione cut in, using all her inner reserves to keep her voice even. "Stop. Let him down."

"You will not interfere!" he snapped at her, his voice harsh, cracking with barely contained rage, "Potter and I have _unfinished business_." The magic cascading from his wand illuminated his features from underneath, casting harsh, sinister shadows across his face.

"Not anymore, you don't!" She risked a quick glance in Harry's direction and felt her insides clench. He had stopped moving and his eyes had rolled back, his mouth frozen in a silent scream.

"Don't I, though?" he sneered, his tone underlaid with cold, uncompromising malice."I will not explain myself to you."

A desperate, frantic sense of urgency was rapidly overtaking her, and she was running out of time. "Voldemort is _dead_ ," she ground out, "you are not. You have me, Tom. Let. Him. Go."

For an instant his expression shifted, anger giving way to a look that was troubled, but thoughtful. Then he scowled and said caustically, "Didn't your darling Harry here ever mention that Weasley tailed you for weeks?"

"No. No, he didn't," she whispered. It was not an altogether shocking revelation, as she had long suspected George's appearance in the cafe that day could not have been coincidental.

But...Harry didn't know. _He couldn't have. Could he?_ She tried to suppress the tiny thread of doubt worming its way through her.

Clearly, though, Tom had known.

What else had he not told her?

An uneasy prickle went up her spine, and she hesitated, uncertain, her brain buzzing and poised on the verge of careening down a dark, twisted path. The solution was there, she could feel it, hovering in tantalizing proximity just beyond her reach, waiting for her to snatch it from the air like a golden snitch.

All she needed was one more piece, one last fragment of information - and then she could extrapolate, solve for x and have her answer...and she knew then, as surely as she knew anything, precisely what she needed to do to get it.

She drew a deep breath, steeled herself, allowed an edge of angry indignation to creep into her tone as she said, "You're conveniently ignoring the reason he followed me to begin with. You."

As intent as he was on Harry, he didn't see her edging closer.

The stream of magic emanating from his wand tapered off briefly as he glanced toward her, his eyes narrowed. "Yes. Your...illicit companion -" he began, halting abruptly as her hand then clamped down on his shoulder.

She yanked him around to face her, her wand coming up to prod his temple, ruthlessly tamping down her response to the warm cascade of energy that surged through her at the point where their skin made contact.

_"Legilimens,"_ she quickly murmured, the instant his eyes locked on hers.

He was completely caught off guard. He flinched, violently, face rippling in shock.

Instantly, the magical restraints holding Harry in place dissolved in a sharp, sudden flicker of sparks, and Hermione watched detachedly as Harry, eyes now screwed shut in pain, dropped unceremoniously to the floor with a grunt.

In a matter of seconds, Tom managed to push her away, slamming his defenses into place and shutting her out, but it was enough.

She saw.

_In a flash, she saw the perverse flush of raw elation he felt upon recognizing her, along with the overwhelming impetus to destroy. He would pounce, seize her in razor sharp teeth of vengeance and he would rend, cut through her like butter and through her spilled blood they would once again know the inevitability of his power._

_She felt the bright, warm complacency at maneuvering her into his web dim ever so slightly - the minute but detectable shift as it became apparent she was far, far sharper- and brighter - than he'd anticipated. It was a revelation, bringing with it a new, wholly unexpected flicker of conflict._

_As satisfying as her compliance was, it ultimately did not serve his purpose. He craved confrontation, an opportunity to flex the muscle of his newfound immortality. He wondered at her integrity - that she hadn't simply betrayed him, hadn't rushed to her closest friends, her allies, and notified them of his existence. And even as he puzzled over the vague prickle of disappointment the prospect of an end to their meetings engendered in him, it was, as they say, a necessary evil._

_The nondescript, anonymous owl launched from his hand, crisp parchment clutched firmly in its talons. His excited, confident expectation was almost palpable. Soon,they would come to see the danger their Golden Girl was in, marshall to her aid, and he would have them._

_Except, they didn't._

_Soon came the appalling realization that the surviving Weasley twin was trailing after her, his body language secretive and reeking of suspicion._

_The devious, calculating portion of his brain should have enjoyed this development, should have sought to exploit any opportunity to manipulate circumstances to his benefit._

_Instead, he experienced an odd, disquieting sense of affront._

_And the recognition of that stirred in him something nameless, unfamiliar, and altogether frightening by virtue of his inability to exert any control over it. He was different now, ensouled, whole and yet still broken, and the weakness of it burned through him like acid. He fought the impulse to once again purge himself of his humanity. It wasn't difficult to recall the raging insanity that rendered him incapable of functioning clearly._

_It would not do to repeat his prior mistakes_

_But by now he could no longer ignore the heady rush of pleasure he experienced in her company. It could not be dismissed as mere physical desire, though that was certainly present in abundance as well. It was worse. It was something deeper, something he could not even bring himself to name or attempt to define, as to do so would be to acknowledge the reality of it._

_That, he could not allow._

Hermione registered movement out of the corner of her eye and swiveled her head just as Harry surged to his feet, then literally flung himself headlong at Tom just as he was turning and raising his wand once again.

_"You fucking bastard!"_ Harry roared, plowing shoulder first into Tom's midsection like a human battering ram, tucking his head down as he roughly tackled him. Tom grunted as his breath audibly whooshed out of him, his arms flying out reflexively from the impact of being knocked off balance. His wand sailed out of his hand, clattering and rolling across the floor.

"Tom!" she yelled, still struggling to process the information she'd just absorbed.

He had told her the truth.

For all his coercive, conniving bullshit, some deep, intrinsic part of him had been sufficiently offended on her behalf to protect her. A man who had eschewed his own humanity, who had willingly embraced the darkest depths of insanity in pursuit of immortality, had feelings for her, and though he would never, ever be Bachelor of the Year, the existence of that small glimmer of emotion was...something.

It was enough.

They went down, Harry on top as Tom landed hard on his back. It was too fast, too unexpected; Tom could neither control his momentum nor collect himself quickly enough to cast wandlessly as Harry quickly reared back, then slammed his fist straight into Tom's cheekbone. Tom's head snapped back and hit the floor with a loud, sickening crack. He slumped, instantly.

For a long minute Harry remained crouched over him, breathing raggedly, his tightly clenched fist poised in the air. His head whipped around and he stared at her. "What...the actual _fuck_ is going on here, Hermione?" he asked, his voice raspy and uneven, "Him? You've been seeing _him?_ "

"I'm so sorry, Harry," she said, her voice cracking a bit, "but you're never going to understand."

Harry's eyes went round as she flicked her wand at Tom and whispered, _"renervate."_

Immediately Tom lurched upright, then swung his arm in a wide haymaker that caught Harry solidly under his jaw and knocked him sideways.

Hermione hung back as they scraped and clawed at each other, gripping her wand tightly in her fingers and edging her way around the two men.

Tom dove after Harry as he fell, seizing his throat with his left hand, then slapping his broad palm hard against Harry's ear. Harry howled, then jammed his knee up hard into Tom's abdomen. As Tom doubled over, Harry smashed the heel of his hand into Tom's nose, breaking it and dislodging the grip Tom had on his throat.

Hermione flinched at the grotesque crunch that seemed to reverberate through the lab. Tom reeled, stumbled backward, teeth bared in a grimace that appeared all the more feral from the blood streaming down his face and into his mouth. He lunged again at Harry, who dodged, then kicked out hard, landing a solid blow to Tom's thigh. Tom hissed and sank to one knee as his leg crumpled.

Her mouth dropped open as without missing a beat Tom's fist shot out in a clean, unwavering arc and connected. This time it was Harry's head that snapped back, his nose that cracked loudly. So the Dark Lord could hold his own in a fist fight. That was unexpected.

She winced, took a cautious step forward, hoped that perhaps there would be a momentary break in the hostilities, some sort of respite where they would retreat to lick their wounds, and she could perhaps stop this from escalating completely out of control.

But they kept on pummeling each other, seemingly unimpeded by either pain or broken bones or the growing spatters and smears of blood on the floor.

"Stop it, both of you!"

They ignored her.

To her dismay, they were now rolling on the floor, grappling like drunken rowdies in a pub brawl.

They were going to kill each other.

Not while she had something to say about it.

She raised her wand and took aim. _"Expelliarmus!"_

The two men flew apart, skidded across the floor and smacked into the walls opposite each other.

Perhaps it wasn't the wisest maneuver to put herself in the line of fire, but urgency currently outweighed caution. Hermione stormed to the center of the room, between them, and conjured a shimmering barrier with quick, decisive sweeps of her wand.

"That's enough!" her voice rang out, clear and commanding.

Still holding her wand aloft she swirled it once more, so that the shield extended outward to surround them. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Tom immediately go still, sitting in place, straight backed and stiff, but Harry struggled, even as he seemed to realize he was fully encased by her magic.

She opened her mouth to speak, then snapped it shut, doing a double take as she realized that they both still had blood oozing from their broken noses. Men. Honestly.

_"Episkey!"_

Harry blinked a few times, relief washing over his face as the flow of blood tapered off, though his expression remained stony and mistrustful as he regarded her.

When she swiveled her head to look at Tom, she froze as she registered his expression. She expected rage, dark and murderous, or, if she was foolishly optimistic a sullen, resentful glare that she had dared to not only raid his memories, but intervene in his unfinished business. In any other circumstances that would have been a death sentence.

To her surprise he was staring at her, stunned, his eyes alight with intensity, as if his entire world had narrowed down to her, and her alone.

The heady pulse of excitement she felt in response was nearly enough to undo her. Almost. Hermione tamped down the urge to go to him, to put her hand on his face and give herself over to the pleasure of their shared chemistry. Instead she arched a brow, tapping her wand against her palm for a moment to focus herself before pointing it at his face. "Episkey."

Harry vainly continued trying to stand. With a frustrated growl he dropped back onto his backside, legs splayed out in front of him, fists clenched in agitation. Angrily he swiped the back of his hand across his face. "This whole time, it's been you," he spat at Tom, "you were behind everything, weren't you?"

It wasn't a question.

"Oh, spare me the dramatics, Potter," Tom drawled, "as much as you hold me on par with the Anti Christ, I am not entirely omnipotent...well, not yet, anyway." He then turned his head ever so slightly in her direction, one eye sliding shut in a discreet, but unmistakable wink.

"You tampered with George's memories!"

Tom shot back, "your friend Weasley still has a pulse. You should consider that a _win_."

She turned on Tom sharply. "You're not helping!"

He raised his hands in mock surrender, then his mouth curled into a smile that was anything but contrite. Clearly, he was trying to challenge her long held notion that insanity was the reason Voldemort had always been such a raging arsehole.

"Let. Me. Up!" Harry shouted in frustration. His magic must have recovered because it was surging now, buffeting her shield; she doubted she could sustain it much longer.

"I can't do that."

"So..what, did you just forget to mention that the Dark Lord had returned?" His voice was scornful. Harry's face hardened then, transformed into a mask of rage, devoid of all warmth or familiarity. "Or were you too busy shagging him to bother?"

That was it.

Whatever remnants of their friendship that had still existed scattered like ash in the face of his condemnation.

Well, fuck him. Fuck them all.

She was so sick of it, sick of their self righteousness, their hypocrisy, and most of all, their judgement - that her meaning in their lives predicated so heavily on her usefulness and her conformity to some unwritten, antiquated double standard.

And on the heels of that realization came anger heated enough to make the tips of her fingers _burn_.

"You don't get to _judge_ me," she hissed, knuckles going white as her fingers tightened around her wand.

None of them would, ever again.

She straightened her spine, fixed him with her eyes, and let the shield that surrounded him dissolve. "You need to leave."

He quickly clambered to his feet. "No, I need to end this, once and for all!"

From off to the side she heard Tom mutter, "As if you could."

"You, be quiet!," she snapped, ignoring the consternation that crossed Harry's face at their familiarity. She lifted her chin and challenged, "are you prepared to end me as well, then, Harry?"

His face told her all she needed to know.

Her eyes swept over, then, to look more fully at Tom. He still sat, his dark eyes wide in astonishment, as if he was seeing her for the first time, and though he had not shifted position, his posture was rigid with tension.

Harry gaped at her, shaking his head. "I don't believe this! God, _Hermione,_ " he pleaded, his voice breaking, "He's not even fucking human! He's a monster! You remember that he killed our friends, right? How about all the innocent people he slaughtered? What about them?" His voice grew stronger, infused with outrage as his anguish morphed into resolve. "Bad enough that you hid him-"

"Harry-" she warned, taking an abortive step toward him. He was right, he was right about all of it. Nothing she could ever say would mitigate the horror and destruction Tom had inflicted upon the world during his previous existence, and she'd committed the ultimate sin of consorting with the enemy after he somehow managed to return.

She couldn't expect him to understand that Tom was different now. He wasn't good, or kind, or anything resembling normal - he never would be- but he was fundamentally altered, and she was choosing him because she too was changed, and could no longer fit into or live in the world she had once fought so desperately to save. "Did you know? About George following me?"

"Are you _joking?_ " he shrieked, though he flinched involuntarily, and she knew. "You've been fucking _Voldemort!_ " He hurled this at her, each word a damning accusation.

"That's enough!"

"You let him knock you up!"

For a second she reeled, the breath knocked from her lungs as if she'd been struck by a bludger. All the possible configurations of words he could have attacked her with, and he chose the most intimate, personal. Hurtful.

Until that moment, she had never hated Harry.

She knew Tom's eyes must be boring into her back, but she wasn't going to look at him, not yet.

"This is what's going to happen, Harry." Remarkable, how steady her voice was. "You're going to go home, and you're going to forget any of this ever happened."

There was a long beat of heavy, almost suffocating silence as comprehension dawned on Harry's face. "Like hell I will." Then, in one smooth, rapid motion Harry thrust his arm out, summoned his wand, and hurled a spell at her.

Before she could even flinch a shimmering barrier materialized before her, deflecting the hex harmlessly to one side.

Tom stood, wand poised in the air, regarding Harry, his expression hard.

Lethal.

Then he smiled. "You should have listened to her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me.
> 
> I really, really wanted to be finished the whole thing before I posted, but a couple days ago I realized that I would end up with a monster of an ending chapter- which I know people like, but I feel bad enough about not updating that I made the decision to stretch it out. One more time. Because I'm kind of an asshole that way, haha.
> 
> Visit me on tumblr. I'm uleanblue there, too.


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